First Lieutenant Sara = a
Day with an armored
truck, one of the vehicles
her platoon operates.
Note the nine-millimeter
Beretta pistol in her
shoulder harness.

and devours the novels of Michael Connelly. One more burden: In – keeping with local customs, all military bases in Iraq are dry. The Army takes the ban on alcohol seriously. “You kind of miss that keg of beer after a race,” says Day.

No matter. In short, Lieutenant Day is confident she can run a 2:40 in Houston. Staff Sergeant Cooper has her on a program that includes two 20-milers and two 18-milers. Her peak weekly mileage will be

around 75. She just powers on. She is not looking out only for herself either. Lieutenant Day runs six times a week with her overweight soldiers, trying to help them with their fitness. For her, that is part of being a platoon leader. She shrugs off any suggestion that this may interfere with her own training. “It’s just something we do,” she says.

Lieutenant Day’s boss, the congenial Captain Sean Imbs, is a huge fan, even if he is saddened that he is unable to cut Lieutenant Day any slack to free her up to run more. “No other Olympic hopeful would consider training in these stressful conditions,” he says. “It’s a combat zone!”

Combat zone it may be, but for Lieutenant Day, it’s where she shows up for work every day and serves her country in time of need—and does i a bit of running when she can.

As the Race Progressed, the Crowds Overflowed.

Part 1 of 2

OUTH KOREA

Countries that had contributed forces to the UN effort in the Korean War were invited to send a representative to Seoul to compete in what was titled the “First International Marathon Race.” The race commemorated the recapture of Seoul on September 28, 1950. It was held exactly nine years later. The course followed the route the UN troops took from Inchon to Seoul, finishing at the Capitol building. Six countries accepted: Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Sweden, Canada, and the United States. One runner came from each country except Australia, which sent two. I represented the United States. South Korea fielded 30 runners.

It was fitting for a marathon to commemorate a war, for marathons are intrinsically battles, battles against outside enemies and internal ones, pitting one side of the spirit against the other. They are the trench wars of human history—exhausted men slogging forward, holding on, one more road, one more town, summoning courage in a never-ending struggle to reach a far-off finish. When the goal is attained, there is no glory or vindication or meaning, only relief and a vague recollection of combat and perplexity about the original purpose of the skirmish. The combatants know there will be another battle the next day and the day after without end.

Ihave competed in over 500 races during a period of more than a half century. All of the pain and frustration and failure endured in these contests and training for them were wiped away by participation in two races—the First International Marathon Race in South Korea and a 15-kilometer race in Mar del Plata, Argentina.! Ten weeks and 11,000 miles separated these races, but they shared qualities that set them apart from any other competitions I have engaged in.

PLAIN AND UNHERALDED

Crowds at athletic events can be large or small, respectful or disdainful, enthusiastic or subdued, and civil or rowdy like English soccer fans. If an athlete ever participated in a minor sport, as I did as a road runner in the 1950s and 1960s in America, the character of the audience wouldn’t matter. He would take any kind

of crowd that showed up. No one was more anonymous in the world of sports than road runners. Many people at that time had no knowledge or understanding of road runners, though they were familiar with the bird by that name.

Any organization or town in New England—the nation’s hotbed of road running at this time—that sponsored a race could expect a field of 40 to 80 competitors. The same runners appeared week after week, battling head-to-head for the same places, the top 10 or 20 or 40, depending on the quality of the field. Sometimes the goal was not to finish last.

Mention the name of any of two dozen cities or towns in this region to a runner, and he will recollect a race held there: winning times, his own time, the terrain, prizes, and refreshments. While the history, culture, or politics of these towns held no meaning for a road runner, the names of these towns were carved forever in his mind. Certain Massachusetts towns held these races year after year: the Salem Mack Park 10-mile, the Lynn Bennie’s Pizza 10-mile, the Haverhill 10mile, the Cambridge Hyde Shoe 12-mile, the Boston Cathedral 10-mile, the New Bedford 30-kilometer, and the Needham 20-kilometer (a national championship). Out-of-state favorites were the Warwick (Rhode Island) five-mile, the Manchester (Connecticut) 5-mile, and the Manchester (New Hampshire) 15-kilometer. In old age, a runner might forget a lot of things but never these races and his rivals.

No two races were alike, though they did share a common ingredient—small crowds. The silence that trailed the runner in his training runs reigned as well during the races. In the 1950s and 1960s, no one was hungrier for crowds and fame than a road runner. But he never saw a crowd unless he ran the Boston Marathon and received little fame unless he won it. In those two decades, only young Johnny Kelley in 1957 and Amby Burfoot in 1968 succeeded in this quest.

Certainly, a runner expected no fortune. After all, this was the age of Avery Brundage, head of the International Olympic Committee (IOC). Though personally wealthy, he enforced the strictest of amateur codes. No prize could possess a value of more than $35. No compensation could be received for an activity related to your sport, including for coaching. Trophies, medals, and cheap merchandise were presented to the top finishers in road races.

It was impossible to mask the meager returns from road races and gain any public appreciation of the sport. Many times at socials, I was interrogated about marathons. My questioner would be astounded to learn that marathons were 26 miles and that top finishers received neither money nor recognition. Ultimately, he arrived at the question: why do you run? Rarely did I attempt an answer, knowing he would not understand.

Spectators also might have been turned off by the plain uniform of the road runner: bathing suits or gym shorts, white T-shirt, dark socks, and canvasback cross-country shoes (I wore these in my first marathon). In cold weather he wore work pants and sweatshirts. How could we compete with the colorful, tailored

uniforms of the professional sports? Perhaps it was this lack of glamor that kept our crowd size insignificant and quiet.

STYLE

Another reason for sparse, hushed crowds was running style—the stride, arm carriage, torso, and facial expression of road runners. The technique of great athletes should appear effortless, as though they’ re skipping rocks across a sea—like Arnold Palmer in the 1950s and 1960s. He made Americans comfortable—strolling down an emerald fairway under a cloudless sky, smiling benevolently, cigarette in hand, whacking a ball. Athletes should resemble a Michael Jordan, leaping and twis ing in midair, as gracefully as a ballet dancer. Or a Roger Federer on the tennis court—calm, composed, and in control. Every man’s dream is to never grow up,

to play games forever, and earn a fortune. Sport is all about fun.

But distance running never lent itself to sublime expression or elegant motion. Grimaces and contorted arms and legs were natural to our game, especially in the final miles of long-distance races. Our sport is not the only one that fails in this respect. It is the same with swimmers. Swimmers, except for backstrokers, conceal their misery under water. The agony of a runner is transparent. A sporting crowd gathers to watch athletes playing, not to witness a Shakespearian tragedy. It does not want to know that a great effort, even pain, is required. How could anyone understand us?

It wasn’t that runners didn’t try to hide their discomfort and cultivate a smooth racing style. They worked hard at this, though not to attract a crowd but to gain competitive advantages. First, a runner uses less energy with a relaxed style and serene expression. Second, with this appearance he convinces rivals during a race that he is running with ease and that they should not keep pace with him. Third, he convinces himself that he is strong and in control.

Exhibiting a smooth running style required extensive practice, will, and duplicity: duplicity, because inwardly, at least in the later stages of marathons, you ran on the edge of exhaustion. But there never was subterfuge in runners like Johnny Kelley the younger. From the start, he sprinted out. His eyes were focused and his expression as intense as Lance Armstrong’s during his ascents in the Alps.

Maintaining an easy style and a poker face was more difficult running up hills or into the wind. It was like a card game. A runner raises the ante with a burst of speed, all the while wearing a nonchalant demeanor. Who will match it? Who will take the chance that it’s a bluff and call it with his own burst?

Crowds were also meager at races, because we couldn’t convince them we were having fun. How many times I have read about the fun that athletes were having

preparing for or playing in basketball tournaments, bowl games, NHL playoffs, and the World Series.

Where have I been? I can count 50 major races I have competed in, including Olympic and Pan American Games tryouts, international races, 22 Boston Marathons, and national championships at 15 kilometers on up. They all shared one ingredient—the complete absence of fun. Waiting for the days to pass before arace, I was tense, scared, and tortured with self-doubt. Fun? My sleep during the nights leading up to the race was filled with nightmares—missing the start of the race, losing my racing shoes and running in boots, running the wrong way and meeting my rivals coming from the opposite direction. I would wake in a sweat as if I had been racing the whole night.

Runners employed a variety of tricks for creating the illusion of fun in our game. Gordon Dickson, Canada’s top marathoner for several years, employed the most original method. For three weeks during the summers of 1961 and 1962 I stayed at Gordon’s apartment in Hamilton, Ontario. One of his roommates was Hylke Van der Wal, that country’s best steeplechaser. A number of excellent runners, including Hylke and Ron Wallingford (who would go on to hold Canadian records for the 3K, steeplechase, and marathon) joined our workouts.

Since Gordon’s house was located on Robinson Street, he called our group the Robinson Street Training Camp (RSTC). He printed and distributed certificates that bore that name to members and a list of its principles. None of it was serious. Aconcluding line of the certificate charged members of the club to never grumble or complain but instead to “Keep Er Goin’” through all the rigors of training. Sometimes during workouts, even those run at a fast pace, members of the group took turns developing the theme. It required some effort to think and articulate clearly while running at full speed. Gordon as poet laureate of the training camp would lead off with something like: “Up the winding trail/Across the thirsty desert/Into the dark valley/Keep Er Goin’.” A minute or two later, another would improvise: “Above the rocky mountain pass/Cross the wild and windy ridge/Move your bloody ass/Keep Er Goin’.” The variants were endless, as all poetic meters were acceptable. The tiredest might yield his turn to the others lacking either the strength to speak or the wit to invent. Some lines drew groans rather than laughter because laughing took too much energy and running hurt too much.

Though our physical resources were limited, how we worked to cultivate and stretch them. Our purpose was deadly serious and our commitment total. Each of us aspired to reach beyond any mark he had ever reached before. Deep inside we nourished a spark to reach a mark no other runner had attained. How to overcome the limits of will and body? Gordon’s RSTC tried to conquer them through a sense of the absurd.

The Briton Fred Norris had a different philosophy, dominating races through sheer mental toughness and through a kind of Sisyphean scorn for pain. Was that

a surprise? He had worked in the Welsh coal mines. At age 38, he won the World Cross-Country title. Three years later in 1961, he received a scholarship from McNeese State, Louisiana, where he ran a 4:13 mile and 8:56 for two miles on an 11-lap indoor track. Those results were remarkable for a man of his age and who was essentially a long-distance runner. He approached his races with a kind of disdain for the whole business of competition and the course and the weather, though he respected his rivals.

Perhaps the problem is the nature of our sport. Our game prohibits time-outs to review strategy, patch up injuries, adjust equipment, make substitutions, or get help from teammates and coaches. We ran the course alone. Crowds saw all too clearly that serious competitors in our sport were not having fun.

RACE HANDICAP

The seven foreign runners in the South Korean marathon—Dave Power and Geoff Watt (Australia), Ray Puckett (New Zealand), Keith James (South Africa), Arnold Vaide (Sweden), Gordon Dickson, and I—were housed in rooms at the Bando Hotel in Seoul. During the week preceding the race, we shared meals and excursions, socials and workouts, and from these activities developed a kind of team spirit. The morning of the race, we drove out to the starting line, reversing the route we would take during the race. At the start, a small, quiet group of press and officials surrounded us. Their mood was somber. They huddled and exchanged notes as if administering the race were complicated. Marathons with small fields are simple events. Runners are directed to a starting line. No one jostles for a

A South Korean President Rhee (seated) meets with the foreign contingent, along with officials, and Lee Chang-hoon (standing directly behind the President).

preferred starting position. The race is too long for that to matter. The gun goes off, stopwatches are pressed, runners start, and lead vehicles point the way. At the finish, times of each finisher are recorded. That’s all there is.

About 10 minutes before the gun sounded, a reporter from the Stars and Stripes, newspaper of the U.S. Armed Forces, cornered me. “Would you mind sprinting out at the start?” Pointing to a large banner hung out over the start, he said, “An American leading—that would be a great picture.” I refused. Did the press ever cease trying to manipulate?

In the 1950s, there were few international long-distance races by which to compare runners and scant information on national championships. The foreign runners feared that the Koreans would dominate the race. Ten of the Koreans had participated in a training camp before the race. They also had a home advantage—they knew the course, had the home crowd behind them, and didn’t have to travel. Most significant, they had history. In Olympic marathons, Koreans finished sixth in 1932, first and third in 1936 (these three men for a number of years were incorrectly listed as Japanese because Korea had been occupied by Japan during that period), and fourth in 1952 and 1956. Also, Koreans had an impressive record in the Boston Marathons, including a course record in 1947, a one-two-three finish in 1950, and a third and fifth in 1957.

The Korean Lee Chang-hoon, fourth in the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Marathon, was the favorite in the First International Marathon Race. Dave Power was rated a close second with Vaide, 11th in the 1956 Melbourne Olympics, and Keith James of South Africa next. Power had run a rare distance triple in the British Empire Games—winning the six-mile, the marathon in 2:22, and finishing seventh in the three-mile, all in five days. He had also placed seventh in the 1956 Olympic 10K. The British Empire at this time had several outstanding distance runners. The third finisher in the 1957 Boston Marathon, Lim Chong-woo, was also experienced in international races. Puckett, Watt, Dickson, and I were assumed to have no chance of breaking in the top places.

A minute before the start, the foreign runners nervously shook hands. The Koreans seemed no more excited than if they were involved in friendly exhibition.

Finally the gun sounded, and 37 men set out for Seoul along the same route taken by UN forces nine years before. The runners would require less than three hours to reach the finish at the Capitol building; the UN forces had taken 13 days—under heavy fire, of course. It was the turning point in the war, because these forces had been driven down to the southern tip of Korea

All the waiting and planning and dreaming were over. The start of major races was always a shock, like jumping into a cold ocean. In the early stages of the race, a runner tried to gauge his strength and that of his opponents. A runner couldn’t fight the field the whole way, forever trying to catch or escape rivals. It was helpful to pace off a runner whose pace approximated his own. It was synergistic. But

AP ASARER UL bigs ewe ae ee

o £ S =

A Fifty yards into the race, four foreign runners are in the lead (left to right): the author (#6), Power (#1), Puckett (#3), and Vaide (#5).

there were those who brought out his worst. If he ran beside someone who was tall and had a long stride like an Amby Burfoot, matching him made him overstride and lose efficiency. If the runner then shortened his step to its usual length, he would become painfully aware that Amby was taking fewer strides to cover the same ground. That was discouraging if not, it seemed, downright unfair.

Even worse was running beside George Waterhouse, an excellent runner at 10 miles in New England during the 1950s. Because he groaned and gasped for breath and his feet struck the ground like sledgehammers as he raced, George made his running companions feel miserable. You could hear him coming from a block away. You had to get away from George to regain rhythm and confidence. He was like the Detroit Pistons basketball team. Everyone looked and performed worse when playing Detroit or running next to George.

Matching strides with Dr. Charlie Robbins presented a different problem. One of the top American runners of the 1940s and ’50s, he had an uncanny ability to discourse while running at full speed as if he were enjoying a picnic. His questions were probing; you had to answer. Was this a ploy, you wondered? Was he trying to induce his competitors to talk to tire them or make them lose focus? Robbins had a medical degree, some said with a minor in psychology. He couldn’t be trusted. In his younger years, he was easy to avoid because he led so many races. As he aged and slowed and became more philosophical, he would fasten on you like a man without a friend.

Many factors affected a runner’s choice of pace. How did he feel that day—well rested or tired, confident or in doubt? During warm-up, did the road feel bouncy or like soft sand? I was apprehensive about constipation that had afflicted me for an entire week before the race. I went to an Army doctor for help. Giving me medicine, he chuckled, “If this doesn’t work, try dynamite!” It didn’t work, but by some good fortune I was not affected during the race.

The most elusive factor was the runner’s will. Whatever the conditions and his feeling, how deep would he dig into the reservoir of pain to succeed? Its depth was a mystery he explored again and again throughout a life of competition. It was an attempt to race at the edge of exhaustion without crossing that line and pushing that line further and further back, to track the path of Icarus, to approach the sun closer than any man before and return unscathed.

There were limits. Denying them was an exercise in self-destruction. In 1963, Ethiopians Abebe Bikila and Mamo Wolde ran side by side at the Boston Marathon, setting course records at each checkpoint through 20 miles, and then faltered badly. Bikila finished fifth, Wolde 12th. Bikila won two Olympic golds, one barefoot in 1960 and the second in 1964 by over four minutes (40 days after an appendectomy); Wolde won gold in 1968.

It helped to think positively. The Korean course was hilly, the roads poorly paved, and the weather hot. Heat was a great equalizer and caused many upsets. But at least we didn’t follow the exact course that the UN troops had taken after landing at Inchon. They had to dash ashore through water and sand and then scale 12-foot sea walls. Even worse would have been starting from the low-tide mark in Flying Fish Channel, the gate to Inchon. Under the pull of 23- to 33-foot tides, the sea withdrew as much as three miles, leaving mud flats and reefs. Crossing miles of mud and shoals would have been a real challenge. And wind: none of the runners had ever competed in a typhoon. During the loading of the UN armada, 12 days before its landing at Inchon, Typhoon Jane struck with 110-mile-perhour winds. When our bodies complained about the heat and hills, it helped to remember there were always worse conditions.

In short, pace depended on a number of physical and transcendent forces.

THE RACE

For the first three kilometers of the race, no one took the lead.” Rivals postured and feinted, displaying their smoothest style. At seven kilometers, Puckett and Power broke in front. The remainder trailed in groups of twos and threes and some ran alone. James was in the middle of the field and Dickson, Watt, and I almost dead last. The last three non-Koreans had been stampeded. It was easy for them to justify a moderate pace because it was hot. They prayed that the field would come back. But what if it didn’t? What if the Koreans had a greater tolerance of

the heat? Their tranquil expression and fluid style seemed to suggest this. Didn’t they know it was hot and that this was a race?

Deciding a pace was always difficult in the early stages. It didn’t matter after 20 miles—then you tried only to survive.

Almost from the start, the crowds greeted us loudly and warmly. This was one of South Korea’s first international events, and it was a sport in which the Koreans had had great success. The race ignited ancient fears and primitive hunger, of atime when man had been both predator and prey. Any move by a runner—fighting or catching rivals, accelerating, nodding appreciation—drew an immediate response from the crowd. We tried to hold back to a reasonable pace, but it was impossible to shut our ears to the clamor. Oh gracious crowd, noble and insatiable!

It was a national holiday. School was out and throngs of students lined the course. Now I knew why Korea’s children’s choruses were renowned. Their voices resounded melodic and pure upon the air, an “Ode to Joy” for the runner. At several points along the course, we could hear a crescendo of applause and shouts building and building in front of us like an approaching storm.

How much would the crowd be worth to the home team? In other sports, the visiting athlete tried to nullify its impact by scoring early. The tactic had no effect on the Korean spectators. Though Power and Puckett had built up a 100-yard lead by 10 kilometers (33:34, ora 2:21 pace), the crowd would not be silenced. Besides, they cheered for everyone. Vaide was just behind the leaders; Keith James trailed by a minute and half, and Dickson, Watt, and I by over two minutes.

Courtesy of Jim Green

A At the 5K point, 16 South Korean runners, half of their entries, share the lead with Vaide, Puckett (#3), and to his right, Power (hidden by a runner). The other four foreign runners are far back, already losing contact.

Power reached 15 kilometers in 50:05. His last five kilometers were timed in 16:31, the fastest split for this distance by any runner in the entire race. Puckett was only six seconds back. You would think that the countries down under were at war. They hammered each other, passing each other repeatedly, not content to collaborate. Pursuing them 200 yards back were Lim Chong-woo, two of his teammates, and Vaide. Lee, a minute and 45 seconds back, had lost all contact with the leaders. Unless they wilted badly, Power and Puckett would run away with the race.

At this checkpoint, Dickson, Watt, and I entered the top 20 for the first time. Over the next 10 kilometers, we gained few places. Our earlier advances had been achieved against weaker runners. Now we were facing the iron of the field. There would be no easy conquests. Each place would be earned yard by yard.

Dickson ran close to me for much of the first half of the race. Seeing him was an unpleasant reminder of the Pan Am Games we had run exactly 26 days earlier in which he had finished third and I, second. In addition, Gordon had doubled in the Pan Am 10K, finishing fifth. Marathons should not be run so close together. Had we recovered? In addition, he was nursing a strained Achilles.

Not until the 25K mark did the Koreans show they too were mortal. Imperceptibly, I began to close on two of them. The crowd reacted with a sustained roar. You always wanted to catch a rival quickly and then blow by him. You didn’t want to pay too much for a small gain, not when there were 10 miles to go. A mile later, Tran down another and then another. Still farther ahead, Koreans were walking;

Courtesy of Jim Green

A From the 10K to 30K mark, Dave Power (#1) and Ray Puckett (#3) go head to head.

some were quitting and getting into a Jeep. James, several spots in front of me, and Dickson and Watt, a few behind, were also moving up in the field.

It wasn’t that we were speeding up; the field was disintegrating. What had happened? Power and Puckett and all of the Koreans except Lee had set far too fast a pace for the first half. But then who could remain unmoved by the hallelujah chorus? How many times during the first half of the race did I have to block my ears to the cries of the crowd beseeching us to catch, to hold on, to pass.

Eighteen, or half of the field, would drop out. The did-not-finishes (DNFs) made this choice only after a wrenching debate. I have listened to the arguments, so often the same, echoing from my own footsteps, through many a marathon:

Hang on a little longer. Just a bad patch, sounded one voice.

Everyone’s passing you. It’s no use, answered the other.

I trained so hard for this.

You overtrained.

I can’t quit. This is a big race.

There’ re other big races coming. It’s not the end of the world.

Just one more mile.

It’s not worth an injury.

Then the negative reasons attack all at once: Jet lag… the heat… diet… the course … Nothing is worth this torture.

Stopping seemed so natural. Sometimes, you rationalized that a short rest would restore you, but then after restarting you would soon argue for another stop and another until you gave in altogether. The internecine war never ceased until the finish line was crossed.

Marathons were a different kind of war. They produced no visible injuries. But not finishing was like surrendering to an unarmed enemy. The morning after, your conscience was unforgiving. It was impossible to recollect the depth of fatigue or discouragement that produced dropping out—and impossible to accept that the First International Marathon Race was over, the results carved in stone. No matter, those who quit would review the race over and over, trying to rewrite its history.

After hitting his lowest point at 15K Lee began an inexorable march to the lead. At 30K, just after Puckett broke Power, Lee responded by storming past both of them, allowing the New Zealander the briefest moment to savor first place. Riding tumultuous applause from his countrymen, Lee exploded over the last eight kilometers, gaining 5 1/2 minutes on Puckett and 3 1/2 on James. It was surely one of the fastest finishes in a major marathon. Was there any doubt how he finished fourth at the Melbourne Olympics?

Fun? The crowd could see clearly that no one was enjoying the race except perhaps Lee.

Style? In the last miles of marathons, particularly on hot days, it rapidly degenerates. The carefully nurtured form—efficient, flowing, graceful—breaks

A At 30K, just after Puckett pulled away from Power, Lee (#9) storms past both runners.

down. The arms flail and claw at the air. There is no longer a bold stride but a grotesque shuffle. The upper body thrusts back as if a gale wind is blowing against it. The marathoner paints a picture of misery, the very antithesis of an Arnold Palmer persona.

By 20 miles, Dickson and I dragged ourselves into the top 10. Two miles later, I would pass Vaide and, shortly after, a discouraged Power, who, suffering from cramps, was rubbing his stomach. He would retire at 24 miles.

Increasingly, the spectators had swelled out onto our road, narrowing the opening through which we could run, though the last five miles were run over the largest highway in Seoul, six lanes. At 23 miles, the opening was 10 yards; a half mile later it closed to five, and finally with a mile and a half it closed up completely. It was a human gridlock. I had long dreamed of enthusiastic crowds but not quite like this. Was this another one of my nightmares? Would the race be stopped?

I continued to run straight ahead like a fullback into a sea of tacklers. Scores dodged out of my path, their arms brushing mine, hands waving, eyes bulging, and mouths screaming. What circle of hell was this? Earlier, I had occasionally nodded to the crowd, acknowledging its support. But now my only thoughts were, I’m done. Nothing left. Nothing. Still they pleaded. I searched their faces for understanding, but they would not be satisfied. They urged me on and on. If only they would be quiet. If only the streets would be silent. If only the finish . . .

Courtesy of Jim Green

Finally, with a half mile to go, the police pushed some of the spectators to the side of the road. For the first time I glimpsed our goal—the archway and gate into the Capitol building grounds. Deliverance! But wait. Impossibly, the noise grew louder and took on a new urgency. Was someone catching me? Please, not in the last mile. Being passed in the last mile was a violation of the natural law. I had to know just in case I could fight one last time. I hated to break stride by turning around. What I saw was astonishing! Two hundred yards back, a line of Jeeps stretched across the highway, headlights blazing, clearing the road. Pursuing them closely was Vaide, but with only a quarter of a mile to go, I could hang on.

After all of the runners had finished, awards were presented in the courtyard. It was full of officials, soldiers, and spectators. The top three finishers stood on the victory stand and received their awards from Miss Korea, whom we had met on our incoming flight a week before. Then the top 10 finishers lined up to face the throngs and listen to speeches commemorating the anniversary and praising the athletes.

POSTSCRIPT

Later that afternoon, I shared an early dinner with Dave Power at our hotel. He spoke little and made no excuses for not finishing. I offered sympathy and advice on training and tactics for marathons. Imagine, advising Dave Power, a man called by Herb Elliott (gold medalist in the 1960 Olympics and world record holder in the 1,500) the most courageous runner he had ever met. Those who knew Dave

o £ so

A The author at the finish, after placing fourth overall.